


The Games Are On

by elinorofealdor



Series: Turning Sherlock [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 22:26:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2085483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elinorofealdor/pseuds/elinorofealdor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new client is a woman from Sherlock's past, an old friend who's fallen in with dangerous people and been lured into a game in which Sherlock must become a participant, or allow her world (and possibly his) to crumble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Pacing back and forth before the black door, she shook her head, a few wisps of dark auburn hair loosing from her tight braids.

 _This is utterly ridiculous_ , she thought to herself.

Having stood outside the flat for five minutes, she knew sooner or later someone could notice her behavior and draw one of the residents to the door. She didn't want that. She wanted to present herself as collected and prepared for this meeting. Internally she was neither, but she could not let him see her unease.

Several deep breaths later, she finally raised her fist to the door then thought better of it and rang the bell – a quick ring, neither tentative nor forceful. She closed her eyes, listening for footsteps inside the flat. Unsure now of whether she desired him to answer the door or another of the flat's inhabitants, she took another deep breath, focusing herself and preparing for the best-worst scenario.

The door was flung open by a tall, striking, pale man. His piercing eyes afire with curiosity, yet almost instantly replaced with sheer confusion.

He opened his mouth to speak yet she cut in before a syllable could escape his lips.

"Hello, Sherlock," she stated with a gentle purr in her tone.

He swallowed, his eyes narrowing as the assessment and judging returned to his observant eyes. "What are you doing here?" he breathed.

She breezed past him into the narrow, dim corridor that led into the main flat.

"I was under the impression that this is where people come to seek your assistance," she remarked, glancing around the sparse entryway before turning back to meet his gaze. His expression bared his confusion as well as his attempt to work out her presence. Had her nerves not almost overwhelmed her, she might have laughed at his puzzlement.

He stood, the door still open as he clutched it, as though pondering which would cause more of a scene: throwing her out, or letting her stay. After a brief pause, he stood straighter, pulling his head back and upwards to increase his not inconsiderable height as he looked down at her.

"Yes, well some of them email first, but you are far from the first to turn up unannounced." He shut the door and gestured her toward the stairs.

She gave him a half-smile as she moved past to ascend the stairs. "You're trying to make me feel inadequate from the start," she remarked.

Pausing halfway up the staircase, she twisted back to cast him a disparaging glance. "That's hardly polite treatment for an old friend who's come to ask your help."

"As I recall, you seemed to have an impressive talent for getting yourself out of trouble without my help."

"Usually," she smiled. "But you generally excelled at getting me into it in the first place… and this instance is no exception."

"Is that why you so liked to leave me to fend for myself when we got into trouble? Because you blamed me for getting you into it in the first place?" He asked, not acknowledging the latter part of her statement.

"Harsh," she clicked. "I seem to recall many a time when I tried to get us both out unscathed, but you were always more focused on being seen as the cleverest person in any situation which, unfortunately, led to your getting into far more trouble than myself."

Stepping into the main room of the flat, she glanced around at the stacks of papers and books littering most surfaces. The desk was cluttered, the bookshelves only quasi-organized, yet the whole place felt like a home, not simply an office and research area.

"And if what I've been hearing is any indication," she continued. "That aspect hasn't changed in my absence."

He had moved into the kitchen and flicked on an electric kettle. She gave a quick study to the display of beakers, scopes, papers, and assorted science materials scattered on the small dining table in the center of the room.

"Making tea?" When he didn't reply, she took off her coat and laid it over the back of a leather chair in the sitting area. She crossed her arms, casting him a lingering gaze before shifting to the chair to sit. Once seated, she continued watching him as he moved about the small kitchen preparing tea.

"I suppose I should be flattered," she remarked. "You don't do this for most of your clients." He cast her a 'how would you know' glance and she returned it with a coy smile. Silence reigned as she watched him finish preparing the tea tray.

After he'd set down the tray and poured two cups, he sat down across from her, handing her a teacup on the way. They each took tentative sips before setting their cups down. She saw in his eyes the determination not to speak first, so she obliged with a polite smile. "So what have you worked out so far?"

His eyes narrowed before launching into the encyclopedic recitation.

"I know you're here for my help in some trouble you've gotten into, and you've already been to Mycroft about it. He didn't turn you down, but suggested you come to me instead of him. You didn't want to do it, possibly because of our complicated past, more likely because whatever your issue is you don't want me involved in it. Yet it's serious enough to bring you to Mycroft which means it either deals with a very serious personal issue you don't trust to anyone but your oldest acquaintances," she snickered at his choice of terminology but he continued without pause. "Or an issue which has direct bearing on the British government and which only someone with Mycroft's connections or my skills could assist with… most likely both."

He tilted his head slightly as his eyes flickered over her figure. "You've come here against your better judgment but you're not displeased at seeing me. Remarkable I'd say considering the last time we parted, so whatever brings you here is compelling enough for you to suppress your feelings."

He looked over her again and she saw a brief flash of puzzlement. "Unless… no," he shook his head before continuing.

"Without trying to sound dramatic it's fairly apparent that whatever you're here for is a life or death ordeal, and either involves myself and Mycroft directly or, as previously stated, can only be solved by one of us."

"Yes," she replied before he could go on. His eyes narrowed again and she nodded. "It's a puzzle especially for you, Sherlock. And it is life or death."

"And you didn't come to me first because…" he pressed.

"Had I not gone to Mycroft, would you have even let me in the door?" When he didn't reply, she glanced down into her teacup. "Thank you for confirming one aspect I had doubts about," she remarked.

When she looked up, Sherlock had again tilted his head, puzzled. She reached across the chairs to place the cup on the side table. Then, she slid out of the chair towards him. As she leaned down closer to him, he reached his arms out and placed them on her hips. No other part of him moved, but he did not push her away. Her grey eyes shimmered as her gaze locked with his before she tilted her head to the side.

"You did miss me," she whispered in his ear before placing a brief kiss on his jawbone just below his ear. She felt the prickles begin as her lips detached, even though his gaze remained steely when she pulled back.

"Absurd," he breathed as she settled back into the chair.

"Liar," she confirmed as his eyes briefly flickered over her form. She felt the petulance roll off him, yet she never could help calling him on his lies when she saw them, especially when they pertained to her.

"Why should I help you?" He postulated.

She smiled, a slight smile but one she intended him to see. "For exactly the reason you gave: you're the only one who can solve this. And," she held up her hand as he opened his mouth to object. "Before you go on a tear about me playing up our existing relationship or acting the damsel in distress to get your help, let me add the addendum that it's because you're the only one clever enough to solve my problem. It was designed for you specifically to solve."

Before Sherlock could respond, the doors downstairs opened and closed. Sherlock stood, indicating the chair he previously sat in, "Please have a seat, Miss Turner."

She sat down, eyeing him curiously as footsteps were heard on the stairs approaching the flat. "As you wish, Mister Holmes."


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock," a voice called as the door to the flat opened. "You do remember what happens when you leave the door to the flat unlocked, right? Mrs. Hudson will have a fit, and we've already gone several rounds with her this week. If you could, for once, get it into that massive brain of yours that perhaps locking the door after you've come in is a good idea. Especially when we have a tendency to deal with people engaged in or avoiding serious criminal activity..."

The man's voice trailed off as he entered the room and saw Sherlock there with the woman.

"Um, hello," he said, trying to sound casual. He glanced to Sherlock and she could discern the question on his face.

"This is a potential client, John," Sherlock answered. "Doctor John Watson, Miss Maelin Turner."

"Ms," Maelin corrected as she rose to shake the hand John had extended as he moved toward her.

"Divorced?" John asked, not unsympathetically.

"Widowed," she replied with barely a hint of emotion in her voice.

She glanced to Sherlock who appeared to flinch slightly. Whether it was because of her admission which he had not picked up on, or because he felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy she could not tell.

"My condolences," John said as he gestured for her to sit down. Sherlock began pacing behind the chair opposite her. She took up the seat again as Watson asked, "Is that what brings you here?"

"No," she said simply. "To the best of my knowledge, what happened to my late husband was tragic but not criminal. My current problem is far more complex."

Watson raised an eyebrow at her as Sherlock continued pacing, not even casting a glance in her direction.

"It's sort of a story, really. There's a gal who has a penchant of getting involved in complex situations, mysteries of a sort. She's not a detective or even a consultant, yet mystery and a certain type of criminal element have a tendency to follow her. It might sound odd, and it is, but she's been experiencing it most of her life so to her it doesn't feel odd, though she's aware intellectually that it is. One day, a man she has had a few conversations with in various mediums, but never face to face, asks to see her. It's a simple request: going out for a drink. They meet and he is all charm and intelligence. Yet something is off. With the life she's led, this girl is wary by nature and perceptive by inheritance and experience. She knows this man is far more than he's let on, and quite dangerous. It's only when he brings up the name of someone from her past that she senses the depth of his malice."

"What did he do to you?" Sherlock murmured. He had stopped pacing when she made mention of the man and his knowledge of her past.

"It's what he's promised to do, should you not be able to unravel the puzzle he set up," she said.

"I don't understand," Watson began. "How did-"

"Moriarty," Sherlock said.

Watson's eyes widened and his jaw dropped before he caught himself and closed it.

"My reaction exactly," Maelin said with a small smile.

"I'd heard of him. Especially after his interactions with you," she added, looking pointedly at Sherlock. "Yet I didn't think myself significant enough to register on his radar. That underestimation may now cost me everything."

"So he sent you to us," John concluded.

"No. But it's what he wants."

"And you gave in to it?" John asked, sounding a bit miffed.

"Not exactly," she said, again shifting her gaze to Sherlock. "Are you not going to tell him anything?"

John turned in the seat to look at Sherlock. "Tell me what?"

Sherlock eyed Maelin, immobile yet with an intensity to his gaze which would have unnerved almost anyone. It did not have that effect on her, however.

"We were friends once," Sherlock said softly, as though trying to distance himself from the very idea.

"Friends?" John looked to Maelin, then back to Sherlock. "Moriarty's after her because she used to be your friend?"

"He's after me because there's information I have on Sherlock that he wants," she said. "Not to mention information on people he wants to form relationships with, but Sherlock is his main focus. You didn't really think he'd given up on you, did you?"

Sherlock had resumed pacing but now he kept his eyes fixed on Maelin. "I thought you said you weren't here as a damsel in distress."

"I'm not."

"This man has threatened to kill John, myself, and I'm assuming you. Fear inducing as that may be, I've never known you to give into the demands of psychopaths."

"No, only sociopaths," she clipped, and Sherlock glared at her. "I'm not here because it's what Moriarty wants. He wants to play another game with you, Sherlock. A game with his rules, and where he holds all the cards. I think you remember how I feel about games like that."

A small smile crossed Sherlock's face. "When you don't like the game, you make up a new one, or you smash all the pieces."

"Higher stakes now," she replied. "I'm already in play. If you decide to join in, there's really no way out. But if you don't, he's assured me of the outcome. I'm being set up for a murder that hasn't been committed yet, and if it goes through I'll never live to see a trial."

"My god," John whispered.

"And if you don't solve the puzzle, whether it's because you can't or simply refuse to," Maelin continued. "The murder happens and your reputation gets tarnished, as well as… well, my demise."

Sherlock eyed her and the unspoken threat reflected in his gaze. This was not only life or death for Maelin, but it might very well be for Sherlock as well, and it most certainly was for his career.

"Two games at once, then," Sherlock commented. "Moriarty's and yours. You really think me capable of playing both."

"I wouldn't have come if I didn't," Maelin smiled.

"Moriarty's game is, I assume, figuring out the murder before it's committed and stopping it from occurring."

"Indeed," she confirmed.

"And yours?"

"Making Moriarty believe you're only doing it for ego, and any information I have on him."

"As opposed to what?" John interjected. He glanced from Maelin to Sherlock and back again.

Sherlock moved into the kitchen, pressing his hands onto the dining table that served as a makeshift chem lab. John looked back to Maelin, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Sherlock," she said softly. She noted how he pressed his hands more firmly onto the table, making the veins stand out, before he released and slumped his shoulders.

"I can't."

Maelin looked as though she'd been slapped.

"What?" John murmured.

Maelin swallowed hard, swallowed the lump which formed instantly.

"Only one at a time, eh?" She tried to laugh, but the sound that came out was almost a whimper. She stood, trying not to shake, and John stood as well.

"Sherlock, what do you mean you can't?" He turned to look at Sherlock who had not moved, would not lift his gaze.

"It was good to see you again, Sherlock," Maelin said. "I mean that, and I hope you believe it."

John put a hand out to stop her from moving. "Sherlock, answer her."

Sherlock shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

"Sherlock," John said, more forcefully.

"It's all right, doctor Watson," Maelin replied softly. "I understand."

John dropped his arm and Maelin moved toward the door.

"I'll tell him he's won," she said as she reached for the handle. "Should put a smile on his face. Farewell, Sherlock." She brusquely opened the door and moved downstairs.


	3. Chapter 3

The door closed downstairs, and Watson immediately moved toward Sherlock, almost growling. "I cannot believe you. Moriarty could kill her. I should think that might concern you just a bit. And even if not, you don't seriously think he won't use this to damage your reputation?"

"You don't understand, John," Sherlock said plaintively. "I simply cannot do what she asks."

"You're right," John said, shrugging. "I don't. I do not understand, Sherlock, why you'll help three nerds with a comic book case, or reinvestigate that man with the ashes, or even bloody Irene Adler, but not her." Sherlock flinched at the mention of Irene's name, but Watson didn't break. "This woman was your friend once. And you can play this off as though she isn't anymore, but I know you. More to the point, obviously so does she. You let her walk out of here to her probable death. Would you have let Mrs. Hudson do that? Lestrade? Molly?"

Sherlock remained silent and John threw his hands up. "Unbelievable. You know what this does, don't you?" He leveled a hand, pointing a finger at Sherlock. "This makes you more like him."

Sherlock's head snapped up; tears welled in his eyes. John was taken aback for a brief moment, but when Sherlock still remained silent he took a step closer.

"He'll think it surprising, no doubt, that you would be this heartless. Maybe that's part of your plan. Maybe it could help you beat him, finally. But it may have just gotten a woman killed. A woman you, at least at one time, cared about. And yet you let her walk out of here without even attempting to help her? It's not that you can't Sherlock. You won't."

"You're right, John," Sherlock snarled. "I will not."

John shook his head. "You're inhuman," he whispered, and turned away.

Grabbing his coat from the hook, John left the flat, taking the stairs two at a time. When he got to the front door, he paused. There was a note pushed through the mail slot, just a folded slip of paper with Sherlock's name scrawled elegantly on the front. Watson cast a glance upstairs, then looked back to the paper. He stepped outside, opening it, and once he'd closed the door began to read.

_I don't expect you to change your mind, and I understand why you refuse to assist me. At least I believe I do. It took a long time for me to forgive you after our last encounter, but I have. And I forgive you again. Please know that whatever happens, you shall never be anything but beloved to me. If you change your mind (a rarity I know) Mycroft knows how to reach me._

_I will always forgive you, and never forget you._

_Lia_

John stared at the note for a moment after he finished reading. Finally, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and took a picture of the note. He then refolded it and slid it back through the mail slot, trying not to make any noise as he did. As he walked down the lane away from the flat, he scrolled through his contact list. When he landed on Mycroft's name he hesitated before taking a deep breath and pressing send.

"Well, well, doctor Watson," the smug tone greeted him. "Your name is not one I expect to see on my caller ID. I hope my little brother hasn't gotten himself into a mess, but why else would you contact me?"

"Maelin Turner," John said without emotion.

There was a pause on the line, and John almost smiled.

"What of her?" Mycroft finally replied.

"She needs help."

"Of that I am aware."

"Sherlock refused her."

Another pause, this one did not make John want to smile.

"I'll send a car for you."

"Not at the flat," John replied. "I'm going to the cafe in the gardens. You can send one there."

"Very well," Mycroft said. "One hour."

The line went dead and John sighed, sticking the phone in his pocket. He walked down the street, checking over his shoulder occasionally to ensure Sherlock wasn't following him.

The car dropped Watson off at a warehouse, not unlike half a dozen Mycroft had him brought to on other occasions.

"Do you own all these, or does no one care that you hold clandestine meetings in their facilities?" John said as he moved toward Mycroft.

Sherlock's older brother leaned against a sturdy folding table on which stood a stack of papers and a Tiffany-style lamp. "A bit of both, really," Mycroft smiled. "But that's not why you're here."

"Why?" John simply asked.

Mycroft studied John's face for a moment before beginning. "When Sherlock began interacting with Irene Adler I knew something was working inside of him. A connection of sorts, unlike any that he is used to. Yet he never fully trusted her, and would not have. You, doctor Watson, he trusts and cares for, but you're too emotional... sentimental, to use his favored word. Whatever connection Sherlock might be capable of developing with another human being that is emotional, trusting, and potentially physical is tied to Maelin Turner."

"I'm sorry," John said, shaking his head. "Are you saying he was in love with her?"

Mycroft smiled. "You've said yourself he doesn't feel things that way. Perhaps you're right. However, whatever equivalent there is for Sherlock, if he ever felt it for someone, it was for her."

"What happened?"

"They grew up," Mycroft said with a touch of sadness in his tone. "Betrayals occurred on both sides. Their relationship could get a bit tumultuous and tempers flared... then one day she was gone. Sherlock never said much about her after that. I didn't expect we'd ever see her again. Evidently neither did she."

"I don't quite understand, though," John said. "If this all happened years ago and Sherlock doesn't have adverse feelings for her anymore..."

"Then why refuse to help an old friend in taking down your greatest enemy?"

"Exactly."

"Well, my assumption would be either there's something Sherlock discerned about her story - something false or that she withheld, or..."

"Or what?" John pressed.

Mycroft sighed. "Or, unwilling as I am to believe it, Sherlock does still care for her and has no idea how to reconcile such emotions with the rest of the situation."

"You mean he'd let her die rather than help her because... because she might die anyway?"

"Guilt is not an emotion with which my brother is very familiar. If he does still care for her in some respect, the guilt he feels at letting her go off on her own he may think will be less than the guilt incurred should he try to assist her and fail."

John shook his head. "He's not that heartless. He can't be. He wouldn't let that happen to me, even to you."

"But we are not Maelin Turner, doctor Watson."

"He still helped Irene Adler," John continued.

"And look how that ended. I'm not saying it is the reason, as I'm not entirely convinced it is, but if Sherlock has no other motive to refuse her..." Mycroft trailed off briefly. "There are limits to the assistance I can provide her, and I cannot afford to have James Moriarty inciting a vendetta against those I must answer to should my assistance prove unsatisfactory."

"You will help her, though," John said and smiled when a flicker crossed Mycroft's gaze. "You already have. And whether Sherlock helps or not, you'll do more - as much as you can until it seriously jeopardizes your position. And if I help her-"

"I don't recommend it, John," Mycroft finally cut in.

"But if I start to assist her, and you as well, then Sherlock -"

Mycroft began to laugh. "It's a dangerous game, doctor. You knew this woman for only a few moments, and you're ready to engage with her on the battlefield against Moriarty himself?"

John straightened himself, standing tall and proud. Mycroft's laughter faded as he regarded John, then he smiled, genuine and appreciative.

"Sometimes I don't believe even Sherlock gives you enough credit for your bravery."

"He'd probably think of it as me falling for the damsel in distress trap, but it's not."

"No," Mycroft agreed. "It's setting him up for a trap. You realize both your lives will be at risk if you agree to help Ms. Turner?"

"She's apprised us of that, yes."

Mycroft nodded. "Then what are you waiting for?" He handed John his mobile, already set on Sherlock's number. John took the phone, cast Mycroft a glance, then pressed send.

"Mycroft," Sherlock sighed as he answered. "This is not the best-"

"We're helping her, Sherlock," John interjected.

"John?" Sherlock questioned.

"Mycroft and I, with or without you, we're helping her. So go ahead now and rant and tell me all the reasons this is a poor idea. In fact," he pressed the speaker icon and held the phone between himself and Mycroft. "Tell us both. Get it out now, and then either shut the bloody hell up and get out of the way, find some other case to do on your own, or help us."

There was a brief pause, then Sherlock said softly. "Don't."

John shook his head as though Sherlock could see him. "You can't get out of it that easy, Sherlock. She needs our help. Your help. I saw her face when you told her no. If that did not affect you, then you really don't have a heart - and if it did, you better help her or Moriarty has already won and that heart really will be burned out of you."

Another pause, then Sherlock replied. "Very well."

Mycroft and John turned their heads at approaching footsteps. From around the corner came Maelin, followed by Sherlock. Her eyes were glistening, though she had not cried. She moved straight for John and wrapped her arms around him. "Thank you," she whispered in his ear before pulling away.

John stood aghast, his hand still holding out the phone as Mycroft took it from him and placed it in his pocket. When Maelin pulled away from John, she looked to Mycroft and gave him a soft smile. "And thank you, Mycroft."

He smiled at her with true brotherly affection, "My pleasure, Maelin. I will do what I can."

She nodded to him, knowing the import of what he did not add to his words.

Sherlock hung back, a few paces away from them all, and when John looked to him as Maelin and Mycroft conversed, he saw a flash in Sherlock's gaze as he looked at her. John said nothing, but repressed a small smile.


	4. Chapter 4

"He's in," Maelin said simply, the voice on the other end of the line starting to chuckle.

"I knew you were up for this," he replied as his laughter subsided.

"Just remember what you promised me," she added.

"As long as you're a good girl and get daddy what he asks for."

Maelin flinched. "I don't really have a choice, do I?"

"Well, no. But I like hearing you say how much you want to please me."

She took a deep, silent breath, willing herself to remain calm. "I'll get you what you want."

"Not want, need." His tone had grown cold and sent a chill through Maelin.

"Of course," she smiled, a cold smile. "Whatever you need, sir."

He chuckled again. "That's my girl. You play him as well as you're playing me, and your reward will be more than you asked for."

"As you wish," she replied and heard his line go dead.

She took a deep breath, then flipped over her phone, cracking open the case and removing the sim card. She walked across the bridge and tossed the battery of the phone in a bin and the rest in the canal, then slipped the card into a small pocket within her jacket. Picking up her pace, Maelin started jogging into the park, knowing it would be at least an hour before she recovered from that call, and perhaps longer to reconcile what she needed to do with what she wanted to do.

* * *

 

Two hours later she found herself standing before the one place she wanted most and least to be. She raised her hand to knock, then brought it down, rubbing it across her face. Instead, she turned and walked next door, entering Speedy's cafe. She ordered a tea, bottled water, and a bagel, then sat down at a small table near the back. She ran the cold bottle of water across the back of her neck and sighed before cracking it open and drinking half of it.

A few minutes later as she sipped her tea and took her first small bite of the bagel, the chair across from hers was dragged back. She looked up, more out of courtesy than anything. She knew he would come down to her.

"Rethinking your plan?" John asked as he adjusted his seat.

"I'm constantly rethinking a lot of things, Doctor Watson."

"You can call me John," he interjected. "Please."

She gave a small smile. "Thank you, John."

"You know Sherlock's upstairs pacing about and muttering to himself all sorts of insanity."

"It's not insanity," she said, taking another sip of tea.

"Well, you know what I mean."

"I do," she said, smile broadening. "You should have seen him as a teenager."

"God no," John laughed as his tea was brought over. He nodded to the server before continuing. "I wouldn't want to know how insufferable he was then."

"Yes you would. But not now. You have questions."

"Just one, really." John said before taking a sip of his tea. Maelin gestured toward him, giving him the floor. "Do you really think you can win this?"

"It's not really a game, John."

"Bull."

Maelin sighed. "It's not like Sherlock said earlier. I can't smash all the pieces. I mean, I could, but seeing as how we're pieces it's not something I'm keen to do."

"That still doesn't answer my question."

"I know. It's… complicated."

"Trust always is."

Maelin stared at him for a moment.

"What?" John asked after taking another sip of tea. "You think I can't be observant sometimes?"

She took another bite of her bagel and sip of tea, all smiles having faded from her. "You're right. Success, or winning, if you want to call it that, could very well depend entirely on my trusting Sherlock, and him trusting me. I wish I had full confidence that it's possible but-"

"Why isn't it?"

"That's a simple question to a very complicated answer, John. We're different now, both of us. He's better with you," she said so matter of factly John raised an eyebrow at her. "I can see it already, and even in what I've studied with the two of you, and how he speaks of you it's clear. I might be good for Sherlock again, and I might be worse. I don't know yet."

"What about his effect on you?"

"You read my letter."

"I didn't mean-" John started before she held up a hand. John looked down at his tea, taking a sip. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright. I knew there was a possibility you'd see it, too." She paused, sipping her tea and taking another bite. She then ran a hand through her hair, as much as she could with it pulled back in a loose bun.

"You don't have to answer that," John finally said.

They sat in silence for a moment, sipping their tea and avoiding looking at one another. Rubbing her hands on her knees, Maelin finally spoke. "We keep sitting awkwardly like this, people will think we've had a fight."

John smiled and they looked at each other. "You should go up to him."

"And say what?"

"Anything, or nothing. I think… I think he just needs you around."

Maelin sighed again. "It's been a long time since he's needed me for anything."

"I very much doubt that's true. Maybe he learned how to get along without you. Well, he's had to obviously, but I wouldn't mistake that for being unneeded."

She eyed him before replying. "You really believe that?"

"At this point it's not about what I believe, though for the record I do. It's really about if you're ready to do what's necessary for him."

John slid a key to the flat across the table to her. "I've got some errands to run."

He left her there, and Maelin stared at the key for several moments before taking it and leaving Speedy's. With one deep breath she moved next door and turned the key in the lock.

Entering the flat, she could hear Mrs. Hudson's radio on in her kitchen as she cleaned. Maelin quietly ascended the stairs, hearing the shower running once she got to the landing. She moved into the flat, contemplating as she glanced around what to do with the key. After a moment, she slipped it into her pocket and moved to the leather chair by the fireplace. She sat down, crossing her legs and putting her elbows on her knees. Propping her chin on her hands, she remained like that until the door to the bathroom opened, then the only change which occurred was a small smile as Sherlock emerged and strode into his room, completely naked. The door to his room closed without a glance in her direction, but once it was shut, his voice echoed from inside.

"Is there something I can help you with?"

"No," she returned.

"What did John send you up here for, then?"

"Quality time."

There was a pause as though he was contemplating her words. He emerged a moment later in navy lounge pants, a tee, and one of his dressing gowns. He looked at her, studying.

"You're serious."

"On occasion," she smiled. "Can I use your shower? I've been on a run in the park for nearly two hours."

He gestured toward the bathroom.

"You wouldn't happen to have any clothes I could borrow?" She saw the flicker in his eyes, and raised her head, giving a single nod. "Something like that is fine. Or I could go ask Mrs. Hudson."

"Don't be ridiculous," he finally replied. "You'd look absurd in one of her frocks."

"More absurd than on your clothes?"

"There's pants and shirts in the third drawer of the dresser," he said as he moved toward her, waving her out of the chair.

Maelin moved and was almost immediately supplanted by Sherlock plopping in the chair. As she moved toward his room to pick out some clothes, he called after her.

"How was you call with Moriarty."

Maelin continued into his room, silent. When she reached the dresser, she noted her hands were shaking. She opened the drawer and quickly shuffled through the well folded clothes. She pulled out a pair of plaid green shorts and a brown tank. Closing the drawer, she squeezed the clothes tightly before moving back out of the room.

"Difficult," she finally said as she moved toward the bathroom. "As I imagine all contact with him will be."

Sherlock nodded, only half listening now as he moved into his own thoughts. Just as she went to close the door, she heard him say, "I imagine it will."

Once inside, Maelin stripped down and pulled the sim card out of her jacket. She looked at it for a moment, then slipped it into one of the pockets of the shorts. It took most of the shower to get her hands to stop shaking.


	5. Chapter 5

Lounging on the sofa an hour later, Maelin glanced at Sherlock, sitting in his chair with his elbows on his knees, fingers pressed together, resting his chin on them. She gazed at him for a moment, his eyes closed as they had been since she came out of the shower.

"You haven't said it until now," he murmured. "So why bring it up?"

Maelin smiled. "I just think it's an interesting commentary is all."

"Commentary on what?"

When she didn't answer, Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced at her. Her head was tilted slightly and she had an impish smile on her face.

"Oh, shut up."

Her smile broadened as she sat up and tucked her legs underneath her. "But does John ever-"

"No," he clipped.

"Clients?"

He huffed.

"What about Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade? Mycroft?"

"Lestrade did once, but I wasn't home."

"Irene Adler?"

Sherlock glared. "Never."

"Then why me?"

"Expressly to avoid having a conversation like this with you making that face. You would have made that face. I would have childishly insulted you-"

"And we'd have fought, yes-yes-yes. Please. At least one of us is capable of being an adult by this time."

"Is that so?" Sherlock said, and in an instant was out of the chair, striding to her. He plopped down beside her, nestled in very close, and grasped her chin in his hand. "And which one of us would that be?"

Maelin placed a hand on his side and ran it up and down, lightly, starting to wiggle her fingers in places. Sherlock maintained a straight face for a moment before he broke into a smile.

"I think it varies from moment to moment," Maelin grinned as she reached up and twirled a finger around one of his locks. "I do know the real reason you let me, you know."

"You think me more sentimental than I am."

"No. I think you more sensual that you believe yourself to be." She sat up, pressing herself to Sherlock's chest as she wound her hand up through his hair. She kissed his neck. His arms fell rigid at his sides, his chest tightened, but just as she flicked her tongue out on his jaw just below the earlobe, he almost hissed as he inhaled. Maelin kissed that same spot, then pulled back.

"You missed my scent," she said, no longer smiling but gazing at Sherlock with a wistful longing. "You wanted it intermingled with yours again."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed briefly, but he did not speak.

"Well, you got your wish," she smirked.

He leaned in close to her, his lips almost brushing her ear. "We need to get you your own chair."

She pulled back. "Am I moving in?"

"No. But I don't see you going away anytime soon."

She blinked several times, easing away from him. "So you'll-"

"I've already said yes. I'll solve the case, play both games. Save my reputation and your life."

"That's not what-"

"And afterwards… that's what you want to know."

She bit her tongue to keep herself in check before replying. "Is it so wrong for me to want us to be friends again?"

"It didn't work out so well last time."

"And yet now you want to get me my own chair."

"So you stop sitting in mine."

"Sherlock." She clasped one of his hands in hers. "Thirty more seconds of maturity, please."

"I'll exceed my limit for the day."

She reached up her other hand, running it down his cheek, then wrapping her hand behind his head. "Please."

He rolled his lips inward, took a deep breath, and released it through his nose. His look shifted and Maelin for once couldn't read it. There were too many emotions shifting in his eyes for her grasp ahold of any singular one.

"I'm not accustomed to having friends. It's not something I generally… We were important to each other once. I never really assessed when that stopped being the case because it didn't seem to matter, but I think I finally understand. We became too important to one another and it almost tore us apart. We weren't ready for it. We still may not be ready."

"I know," she whispered.

"But you still?"

"Yes," she confirmed, running her fingers through his curls. "And so do you."

He leaned in, tilting his head to kiss her cheek. "As I said, then, we'll need to get you a chair."


	6. Chapter 6

Stumbling up the stairs the next evening, Maelin managed to make it to the landing just outside the kitchen door before her legs gave out. She lay there for ten minutes before the main door below opened. Sherlock's voice echoed faintly in her ears, first chuckling with John, then calling her name. When Sherlock and John arrived by her side, she heard a sharp hiss from Sherlock and a, "My God," from John.

"Tell Mrs. Hudson I'm sorry about the floor," Maelin murmured.

"We need to get you to a hospital," John said beside her right ear.

"No," she said, as immediately as Sherlock.

John sighed heavily before replying. "Then we'll need the kitchen table. Sherlock, you clear it off, and clean it. I'll get my kit. And Maelin, try not to move."

"Not really an issue," she laughed meekly.

Their voices became muddled as they moved into the flat, but Maelin could hear the concern in both their tones. John's was compassionate, urging. Sherlock's was firm, uncompromising, and yet fearful.

 _You're imagining things, child_ , she told herself. _Your pain is making you delirious. Sherlock doesn't show concern through fear._

As though answering her, Sherlock snapped at John and for a moment her doubting voice was silenced. Perhaps he had changed more than she thought.

Before she could consider further, John appeared at her side with a shot glass of amber liquid.

"I have some painkillers and numbing agents," he said, "but I want to get you on the table first. So this is going to hurt."

He helped tilt her head so she could swallow the liquor. It tasted rather bitter and burned going down her throat, but not as much as the lacerations across her back. She tried not to wince and swallowed.

"Alright," John continued. "This is going to be a lot easier once you're on the table, but we have to get your coat and shirt off first."

"I understand," Maelin replied, gathering her strength again.

John said nothing, and Maelin turned her eyes upward to look at him. He seemed to be weighing whether or not she was ready for this. When her eyes locked on his, he nodded.

"Sherlock," he called. "My table ready yet?"

The smell of cleaning products hit Maelin's nose as a response, and then Sherlock was beside her. Maelin focused her mind, readying for the onslaught of pain as John gave instructions to Sherlock.

"Maelin, are you ready?" John asked.

She gave a single nod and felt the hands of both men under her arms. When they lifted her, she wailed and then blacked out.

"What was that?" Sherlock demanded of John as they finished raising Maelin to her feet.

"She passed out," John said simply. "Pain does that to a person sometimes. Probably for the best. Now let's get her prepped and on the table."

With a bit of effort, John removed Maelin's coat and shirt while Sherlock held her upright. They carried her to the table, laying her on her stomach and John undid the clasps on her bra, sliding the straps off her arms. Sherlock dragged a kitchen stool over to prop up her legs so they didn't dangle. When he looked up, he saw her back and stumbled back a step.

"John," he murmured.

John was already at work cleaning her back. "I saw."

"He did this to her."

"I had worked that much out myself," John replied as he reached into his kit. "Now you can stand there being shocked at his depravity, or you can help her."

"How?" Sherlock's voice seemed to have dried up.

John thrust out alcohol and pads. "Clean out the wounds."

Sherlock stepped forward and took them wordlessly, yet didn't move beyond that.

"Sherlock," John said with an eerie stability. "Time is not on our side. If we can't get her wounds cleaned and stitched, scarring will be the least of her worries. I need to make sure no muscles were torn when he cut her and I can't do that until everything is cleaned and numbed. She could wake up at any moment, and that's not going to help the work. So if you want to help her, help me. Now."

Sherlock's gaze drifted once again to Maelin's back, his eyes glazed over with hate for one brief moment, then he set to work with alacrity. As Sherlock dabbed at the deep cuts, John pulled out a syringe and needle. As the third injection went into her back, Maelin moaned softly.

Sherlock looked to John who continued his work.

"Once she's clean, you need to prep the needle with the heavy gauge thread. Disinfect everything, and thread the needle."

"Which size?" Sherlock murmured.

John pulled back for a second, and looked at her wounds. "Third from the top," he said before moving to the next spot to prep for injection on her back.

They had laid her out with her arms up, bent at the elbows, and rested her head on her the back of her hands. As Maelin stirred, Sherlock placed a hand on the back of her head, gently.

"Steady," he said softly as he pulled out the suture supplies with his other hand. "Try not to move," he continued, his hand steadying her neck as she awoke.

"How long?" She murmured.

"Just a few minutes."

"You saw?" She said, the fear creeping into her voice.

Sherlock removed the hand from her head and started prepping the needle. Maelin sighed, then flinched, moaning.

"I'm still numbing the area," John said. "Just try and stay still for another minute and it should be bearable from there."

"Thank you," she said softly.

"You can thank me when these are all closed up and I'm sure you don't have any major tissue damage," John replied. "Do you remember feeling any muscles tear while…" he drifted.

"He was fast," Maelin continued for him. "I remember a lot of pain, and quick slashes. I thought he'd want to savor this work, but I think he wanted something else."

Sherlock glanced to John, and John shook his head.

"I'll have to look closer at your shoulder, then," John said. "A few cuts there seem deeper than the others. But considering you're not screaming now, I think you may be safe from needing surgery."

"Let's hope," she said, groggy. "He wanted me to go to a hospital. Easier pickings."

"Why? He could just send people here," John stated as he began examining her deeper cuts. Sherlock shot him a look, but John ignored him.

"You're trying to distract me, now?" Maelin replied. "Why don't you just knock me out again?"

"You know it's not nice to accuse your doctor," John replied.

"Accusation implies one is not certain of the truth," Maelin countered.

"Sherlock, needle please," John said.

Sherlock handed over the suture needle and thread, followed by the driver. John took them and deftly began sewing up the cuts closest to Sherlock.

"Your muscles don't appear to be torn or cut, but some of these lacerations are very deep. I'll probably have to suture them a few times before they heal. And I'll pass on the info of a good plastic surgeon I know. Should help if there's any scarring."

"That deep?" She murmured.

"Yes."

"Then why can't I feel them?"

"A combination of the numbing agent I injected and the tranquilizer. I'm actually surprised you woke up so soon."

"I have a high tolerance," she said.

"Won't do a lot of good when the pain comes back," John said as he closed up the first wound.

"I have a high tolerance for that as well," she said drily.

"You keep talking like this, it will appear as though you're becoming friends," Sherlock finally interjected.

"Maybe we are," John said. "I didn't hear you trying to keep the patient calm and distracted."

"The patient can still hear you."

Both glanced to Maelin who clenched her jaw as John finished closing another series of cuts.

"The patient would do well to hold still," John said as he began suturing the next series of cuts.

"You know, these didn't seem to take as long being sliced into me," she smiled.

"That's because your previous surgeon was rubbish," John replied with a hint of a smile. "This one is trying to keep you from being scarred, physically speaking at least."

"You mean psychiatric services don't come with the sewing up?"

"Out of my area I'm afraid," John said, moving on to the next wound. "And I certainly wouldn't ask Sherlock."

"You think I'm delusional now?" Maelin grinned.

"Just checking for signs of serious trauma," John said as his smile grew.

"I'm not that far gone."

"Good to know."

John finished the rest of her stitches in silence, Sherlock gazing the whole time at the first few marks on her back. Maelin relaxed, letting John work and trying to focus on remembering details about her capture and conversation, such as it was. She knew once morning came Sherlock would be seeking answers, if not before. His continued silence unnerved her, until he shifted from his position beside the table and moved into the main room. He sat in his chair and looked at her, but before long his gaze grew distant.

Once all the sutures were complete, John carefully cleaned the wounds again.

"I imagine you'll want to wash your hair and face soon," he said to Maelin as he started cleaning and packing up.

"And I suppose you'll tell me I can't shower."

"Not for a few days. I'll have to keep an eye on those sutures."

"Don't trust your work, or want to see me scantily clad?"

John smiled. "Your sense of humour remains intact I see."

"He didn't cut it out of me, if that's what you mean."

"I'll do it," came Sherlock's voice from across the room.

Maelin shifted her head to look at him, as did John.

"Do what?" John asked.

Sherlock stood and strode past the two of them into the bathroom. He emerged a moment later with bottles of body wash, shampoo, and conditioner.

"Sherlock," John began, but Sherlock didn't look at him as he came around to the head of the table and crouched down to face Maelin.

"All I have is my products for now, but we'll get some of yours tomorrow."

Maelin managed a perplexed nod.

"Sherlock, a word," John clipped.

Sherlock looked over Maelin's shoulder to John.

"Now," John said as he gestured to Sherlock's room.

Sherlock set the bottles on a counter as he passed John and went into his room. John followed after setting his kit by the kitchen door.


	7. Chapter 7

Once inside Sherlock's room with the door closed, John stared down Sherlock who had assumed a leaning position beside the window.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" John said just above a whisper.

"You're the one who said we needed to help her," Sherlock remarked.

John rolled his lips inward and sighed before continuing. "Help her, yes. But this… You can't tell me this isn't getting to you. He's trying to get under your skin by getting under hers, literally."

"It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter?" John's voice rose. "It clearly matters to her. She's protecting you, Sherlock, and he might just kill her for it."

"Which is exactly why it can't matter to me."

"Explain," John huffed.

"If it isn't clear to you, John, then I cannot explain it. We're helping her. That is all you need to understand."

"And if something else happens to her?"

"She knew the risks even before coming to us."

"She didn't know the risks in becoming involved with you!"

"You don't think?"

"I - Bloody hell, Sherlock, you know this is about more than just you and him. This game you're playing, he started it and brought her into it. And yes, we agreed to help her, and yes we should, but you can't keep going on like this not saying anything about what your plan is or what this is doing to you."

"To me?" Sherlock looked incredulous.

"You are not as mysterious or cold hearted as you think yourself to be Sherlock, not to her, and not to me. Just - if she's going to stay here, then you need to be clear about where you're going with all this." Sherlock opened his mouth, but John took a step closer and lowered his voice again. "And don't pretend that you don't know what I mean."

John stepped back again. "I'm going upstairs. I suggest you deal with this tomorrow."

When John and Sherlock came out again, Maelin had forced herself off the table and was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed in front of her chest. Her bra remained on the table and she had pulled her tangled braid over her shoulder. Sherlock strode to her with a dressing gown and she took it, gingerly putting it on. Both men turned away as she did and Maelin almost smiled.

Once she had fastened the ties on the gown, she reached out and tugged Sherlock's sleeve. He turned back, and so did John. Sherlock set about arranging the kitchen stool by the sink along with the bottles of wash and hair products.

Taking his cue, John nodded at Maelin as he went to pick up his kit. "I'm upstairs if you need me. Try to sleep on your stomach, and let me know if you need anything from the pain. I'll do a run to the clinic tomorrow if need be." He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "We'll all talk more tomorrow. Get some rest."

John nodded toward Sherlock. "And don't let him keep you up all night with questions. Tomorrow."

With that, John left, shutting the door behind himself and ascending to his rooms.

Maelin turned to see Sherlock cleaning out the sink, the tap running as he scrubbed the interior with a pad.

"How much of that did you hear?" He asked, remaining turned away from her.

"Some," she replied in a casual tone.

Silence hung between them as Sherlock finished cleaning the sink. With a final swipe of the sponge, he ran the tap over the whole sink area, then turned to Maelin. He gestured to the stool and she moved toward him. Sherlock moved the stool about four inches from the sink and Maelin sat down, facing the sink, and tilted her head down. Sherlock had adjusted the water temperature and lessened the pressure in the faucet just before she sat down. He began running water over her head, taking care to avoid it going down her neck and back. He loosed her braid and gently pulled her hair free as the water continued to cascade down. Maelin remained silent as he wet her hair then began to apply the shampoo. It had an oaky scent to it, but not an overpowering musk. Sherlock took great care in lathering her hair, easing his fingers through a few knots and gently massaging her skull. Maelin began to relax as he continued, letting herself finally ease back from the tension she had held since her meeting with Moriarty.

It took over half an hour for Sherlock to wash her hair and body, and they barely spoke the entire time. However, tension between them had not been so absent in many years. Sherlock's attentions were gentle and protective, and Maelin allowed herself to be pliant and trusting in his hands. Once she was washed, Sherlock disappeared into his room for a moment, then emerged with a pair of lounge pants.

"I didn't think you'd want a tight shirt, and I don't really have any undershirts that aren't," he said as he handed her the pants.

She reached out and grasped the pants, then pulled him toward her, clasping his hand in hers. "Thank you," she smiled, looking up at him.

Sherlock nodded, then moved past her to allow her to change.

After changing, Maelin emerged from Sherlock's room clad in the lounge pants, the cuffs rolled up over four inches so they didn't drag on the floor, and the dressing gown once again tied around her midsection. Sherlock sat in his chair in his customary thoughtful pose.

"Tea?" She asked as she moved into the kitchen.

He nodded, but did not look at her. Maelin could see him sinking away into thought.

"You've been back in my life three days," Sherlock said as she handed him a cup a few minutes later.

"There's a judgement coming, I can sense it," she said with a humourless smile.

"More an observation."

"That observation is sliced into my back, not yours. So you can keep it to yourself."

His head snapped up and he set the cup down. Sherlock stood, looking down at her. Maelin's defenses rose within her.

"I mean it, Sherlock. Now is not the time to--"

She was cut off by him sweeping her into his arms in one fluid motion.

"You need to rest," he said firmly as he carried her into his room. Though his tone was cold, he was extremely gentle as he brought her to his bed and set her down on her stomach. He knelt beside the bed, looking directly at her. "Stay here."

Too stunned to protest, Maelin nodded. Sherlock disappeared briefly, then reappeared with their tea mugs. He set them both on the bedside table, then left again. She heard him grunt once and shortly thereafter re-entered carrying his chair. He put it on the floor a few feet away from his bed. He took his mug from the table, sat in the chair, and propped his feet on the bed near Maelin's thighs.

She gazed at him as he sat, sipping his tea. He stared back at her, impassive yet somehow softened. She carefully reached for her mug and he shifted quickly out of the chair to help her. As Maelin took a few sips of her tea, Sherlock kneeling near her and sipping his as well, she started to marvel at him. The contradiction in how he spoke to her and how he looked at her. His firmness in exercising his will while being physically gentle with her. She knew what she hoped this meant, and yet wanted to distance herself from hoping. Still, she remembered what John said to her yesterday about trust. She set her mug back on the table, then took one of Sherlock's hands as he started to shift back toward the chair. She brought it to her lips before whispering, "Thank you."

She then settled onto his mattress more firmly, turned her head away, and closed her eyes. She felt Sherlock brush her hair off her back and drape it over her shoulder before shifting back to the chair. His legs once again propped up with his feet brushing her thighs, Maelin soon let the exhaustion overcome her and fell asleep.

Maelin didn't feel Sherlock slip beside her later that night, lying on his side and watching her sleep. At times he'd brush a section of her hair with his fingers, or run a hand softly along her hip, but mostly he watched her, thinking. Just before dawn, he rose and went to the bathroom, returning to take up his position in the chair beside the bed.


	8. Chapter 8

When Maelin awoke, she heard Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen. She opened her eyes, shifting her head around to face the door. It was open, Sherlock and the chair gone. She went to lift herself out of bed and groaned. Her back ached and her cuts burned with pain. She eased out of the bed, trying not to make more pained sounds. Padding into the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson took one look at her and shook her head sadly.

"I'm sorry about the floor," Maelin murmured.

"Oh, dear, don't you mind about that," Mrs. Hudson replied. "You just take care of yourself. And don't let these boys pester you with their questions. Sherlock wouldn't shut up about it this morning. Asking me what time you left, how long it would take me to clean the floors, all these silly questions. I had to send him out to get you some clothes just to get him to calm down," she finished with a smile.

"He's gone?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "He should be back anytime, been almost an hour. John just left, too. Went to get you something stronger than paracetamol for your uhm, well, your…"

"They didn't tell you, did they?"

"Only that you'd been hurt, and I imagine from the way you're walking it's your back or shoulder."

"Sherlock's not the only one with deducting skills," Maelin smiled.

Mrs. Hudson laughed. "Goodness, I hope I'm not like that," she said as her laughter faded.

"No," Maelin confirmed. "Much nicer, and much less eccentric," she added with a wink.

"Thank you for saying so, dear. Now, how about you have a nice cuppa after you take care of your morning business. Everything's laid out along with a spot of breakfast. Sherlock should be back anytime."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

They smiled at each other and Mrs. Hudson went downstairs. Maelin went into the bathroom and handled her morning business with less alacrity than usual. She then looked in the mirror, frowning at the hollow circles under her eyes. She opened the medicine cabinet and resisted the pain pills sitting sealed and unopened on the shelf. She pulled out a bottle of mouthwash, pouring a fair amount in her mouth and swishing it around as she replaced the cap and bottle, closing the cabinet. Spitting into the sink, she winced as she bent over, but recovered and turned on the faucet, swishing some water in her mouth to rinse. After splashing water on her face, she reached for the hand towel and dabbed her face with. She inhaled softly, smelling Sherlock on the towel and smiled.

After she replaced the towel, a moment of curiosity seized her as her back once again shot fresh pain through her nerves. She moved in front of the mirror, after taking Sherlock's shaving glass from the small table beside the shower. Maelin undid the ties on the dressing gown and let it slip over her shoulders to her waist. Grasping the gown in one hand and the mirror in the other, she turned around, angling the shaving glass so she could see her back reflected from the cabinet mirror. Her eyes grew wide and the glass slipped from her hand, shattering on the floor.

"Maelin," Sherlock's voice rang in her ears just outside the door. "Maelin, are you alright?"

The doorknob turned and he entered, taking all of a second to assess what had occurred. Once again, he swept her into his arms, avoiding the glass shards on the floor, and carried her back to his room. He immediately bent down to examine her feet, looking for signs of cuts.

When Maelin found her voice again, she couldn't bring herself to stop.

"He said it was a message. I thought just cutting me was the message. I didn't realize..."

"It's alright," Sherlock said calmly, though his voice shook. Maelin didn't even hear him as she continued.

"And he laughed when he did it. Just giving me pain was doing it, I thought. He's going to end me."

At this, Sherlock looked up at her. Satisfied her feet were unharmed, he sat beside her, but she still didn't register his movements or his voice continuing to try and reassure her.

"He's really going to do it. Even if it's just to spite you. No matter what I do he's going to do it. He's going to kill me."

Sherlock clasped her face in his hands. "Maelin, listen to me."

"I don't want to die," she said, tears suddenly flowing down her cheeks. "I'm not ready, not really. I can pretend I am, but I'm not. I don't want to die, not by his hand. He's going to kill me and I can't stop it. I don't want to-"

"You won't."

"But he's setting up new rules and there's no way I can give him what he wants. He's going to kill me no matter what and I don't want to die, Sherlock. But more than that I don't want to hurt you, to disappoint you again, to put you through-"

Her words were silenced by his lips, firm and warm pressed against hers. He still clasped her face in his hands, and he moved one to hold the back of her neck. Maelin tried to pull back slightly and he held her firm, once again pressing his lips to hers.

Without thought, Maelin began to return his kiss. One hand found its way to his shirt, clinging to it with her fingers. The other moved behind his head, mimicking his grip on her neck.

After a moment, Sherlock relaxed his grip and their lips soon parted.

"Was that just to distract me?" Maelin asked, fairly certain of the answer but needing to hear it.

"No," Sherlock replied, assured.

Another pause while Maelin loosed her grip on his shirt, smoothing her hand over the wrinkles as she tried not to look at him.

"Do you trust me?" He asked, his voice shaking ever so slightly.

She finally caught his gaze and softened. "Yes," she murmured, nodding. Then more firmly, "Yes, I do."

"Then trust me, Lia," he said again, his grip on her neck easing as he ran a tender hand over her hair. "Trust me and I swear I will not let you die."

His words echoed through to a part of her she thought had died the day she walked away from him all those years ago. It hadn't died, she reflected as he continued to gaze at her. It lay dormant, buried deep within herself. If this whole fiasco cost her her life, she at least would ensure Sherlock knew this - just not now.

She pressed her lips to his, his kiss now more tentative as though his certainty was fading. Maelin shifted herself forward, wrapping her arms around his back and shoulders and shifting herself onto his lap. Pressing her chest against his, she felt his heartbeat pounding. She kissed her way down his neck, feeling his pulse, then up to his ear.

"I trust you, Sherlock," she whispered. "And I will not betray the trust you place in me, ever."

He tilted his head back away from her, scanning her face with his penetrating gaze. Maelin eased a hand up from his shoulder to run through his mass of curls.

"I promise," she said softly, and Sherlock kissed her again. This time the surety of his first kiss mingled with a passion Maelin had faint memories of, returning now with its full force.

They clung to one another for a few moments, Sherlock taking care to avoid touching her wounded back but not shying away from caresses as they relearned bits of each other anew.

When they finally broke, Maelin eased herself out of Sherlock's lap and he took one of her hands in his and kissed it.

He looked at her and smiled, and she returned it.

"Are we of one accord now?"

She nodded.

"Then will you tell me what happened?"

Pain sprang afresh across Maelin's back, and she had to will away the unwanted tears which instantly threatened before beginning.


	9. Chapter 9

The warehouse was dark, not that it needed to be. Maelin could smell the cleanliness of the place. She had been blindfolded upon getting into the town car, her hands bound behind her once they reached the destination, and now her feet were bound as well. Kneeling on the cool concrete, she sighed at the approach of footsteps.   
“This is quite old fashioned of you,” she said as the steps closed in on her. There was another man here, the man who had bound her feet and hands, but he remained silent. Even Maelin’s sensitive ears could not pinpoint his location. Either he took his shoes off or he was exceptionally well trained in silent maneuvers. Possibly both.  
“Well, sometimes you just want to break out the classics for a special occasion.”  
Moriarty’s voice did not echo as she thought it would in this cavernous room.  
“Good insulation, too,” she mused. “Now I’m concerned.”  
He laughed, which didn’t help her concern.   
“No need, dear. I mean, I am going to hurt you,” he said as he placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “But it’s not your physical pain I’m really interested. Not this time.”  
Maelin swallowed. “Jim--”  
“Not now. Daddy’s talking. We’ve discussed what I want you to do for me, to help little Sherlock on his journey to the ultimate fall. You’re clear on that mission, I know. But I’m not in a patient mood right now, so I thought I’d speed things along a bit. So you give this message to Sherlock, and do one more little thing for me.”  
He leaned close and whispered in her ear. Maelin closed her eyes willing herself to remain calm, but she could feel her body trembling.   
“Now,” Moriarty said as he moved around her. “Tom here is going to help you hold still while I compose my message. Be a good girl and we’ll even give you a ride back to the flat.”  
Strong arms gripped her shoulders and lifted her shirt off her back. She made to struggle but was caged in by powerful legs.   
“What are you going to do, whip me?”  
“Not quite,” Moriarty chuckled. “I wish I was that precise with a whip. Hmmm… something to keep in mind for the future. Thanks, love.” He kissed her cheek, and in the instant before the pain began, Maelin tried to relax her muscles.   
It didn’t help. The first few cuts were deep and she gasped. The other cuts were fast and sharp, and tears streamed down her face, though the physical pain wasn’t what made them flow. It was the gleeful sound he made each time he slashed at her which cause Maelin to break down. When he was done, he gave a breathless sigh.   
“Not my best work, but it’ll do. And you were an excellent patient. Top marks. Still, can’t have you bleeding all over the car on your way back. A cloth soaked in some type of antiseptic was placed on her back, and Maelin released her one cry of anguish. When it was removed, her shirt moved to cover her back again and the strong hands released her. She fell forward and Moriarty caught her.   
“Now remember what I told you, and give this message to Sherlock with my love, alright?”  
His lips pressed to hers and before she could think to reply, she was hoisted up and folded over the shoulder of the silent man.   
“Until next time, darling,” Moriarty called as she was carried out of the room and she knew he was waving her goodbye.   
She was placed in the car, still bound, facedown across the back seat. Her bonds were cut just as she was planted outside the Baker St. flat to haul herself up the stairs to Sherlock and John.  
When Maelin related the tale to Sherlock, she omitted telling him about Moriarty’s extra message, whispered conspiratorially in her ear. She trusted Sherlock now, but that part of her mission wasn’t about trust. After telling Sherlock (almost) everything, Maelin wiped off a few tears with the back of her hand.   
She shifted to sit back, out of habit, and Sherlock caught her by the shoulders. She flinched, then fell forward into him. She felt his heart pounding against her forehead.   
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I should have let him end me before ever bringing you into this.”  
Sherlock lifted her head up by the chin. His look was stern, uncompromising.   
“Do not ever say anything like that, not ever again.”  
“Sherlock--”  
“Not ever again. Please.”  
Maelin nodded. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Now what?” She asked as she pulled back.   
“I need to think,” Sherlock said, his gaze already retreating within himself. “John should be back soon.”  
“Mrs. Hudson left food.”  
“I’ll eat a bit,” he said, standing up and offering his hand.  
Maelin shook her head. “I need a minute. We’ll talk when John’s back.”  
Sherlock gave a single nod and left the room. She heard him take a plate and tea cup with saucer from the tray and then settle in his chair. He had placed a case with some of her things on the kitchen table. She came out of the room and pulled it off, nodding her thanks. Sherlock didn’t acknowledge it; he was already deep in his head.  
After setting the case on Sherlock’s bed, Maelin reemerged and went to the breakfast tray. She grabbed the teapot and strainer, walked over to the small side table beside Sherlock’s chair, and poured him a cup. Once she had finished, she went back to the kitchen to do the same for herself. She heard Sherlock take a sip of tea and turned to see him holding the cup delicately between his fingers, his eyes still miles within, and she smiled.


End file.
